


Those are my Shoes, This is my Life

by Skyesurfer12



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:20:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyesurfer12/pseuds/Skyesurfer12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot. Social satire wrapped in cotton candy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those are my Shoes, This is my Life

Those are my Shoes, This is my Life  


-x-  


“Daddy!” A little rocket shot through the doorway, a blur of blue jeans, purple sweater, and auburn curls. Purple, because that was her ‘favorite color in all the universe and I’ll never wear anything else!’ color this week. Next week, Chuck suspected it would be red or aqua or even black polka-dots on silver, and he learned to keep most options folded at the bottom of her dresser as the Emergency! struck. “I was picked to be Cubby Inspector next week!” 

“Cubby Inspector?” Chuck grinned ear to ear at the burst of energy disguised as his daughter, and joggled the blue-eyed preschooler whose sturdy legs were hooked around his hips. “Hear that, Jonathan? Your big sister is just one step away from the White House. That’s great news, bitlet.” 

“Beats the helll-oh out of Sanitizer Squirter last week,” Casey said, striding in behind her with a pink panda-face backpack over one shoulder. It clashed with his no-nonsense black leather bag over the other, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Working your way up, eh, fireball?” 

“Nice catch, Papa.” Chuck, giving a lively look of warning to his husband, walked over to collect his own hell-oh in the form of a kiss. “Did you get my message?” 

Casey reached over to ruffle the hair on Jonathan’s forehead and held up a plastic grocery sack. “All accounted for.” 

“Begin,” Chuck said. 

“Orange juice, no ‘float-y’ pulp –” 

“Excellent.” 

“What’s for me, Papa,” Jonathan yelped. 

“W-H-E-A-T bread, no visible seeds or grains –” 

“Very nice.” 

“The yogurt with the rabbit on it,” Casey continued, briefly frowning, perhaps at the thought of green and yellow swirls where nature never intended. “What’s wrong with vanilla?” 

“Jonathan won’t eat the non-bunny kind.” Smiling, Chuck turned to his son and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Papa doesn’t understand our nutritional requirements.” 

“Nutritional. Might want to Google that sometime.” Casey gave him a dubious look as he dug through the bag. “Organic all-natural peanut butter –” 

“Icksnay,” Chuck said quickly, glancing over his shoulder to see Eleanor on Papa’s recliner, hugging George hard enough for the docile tabby to kick out a fur ball. “I need to put it in the If-Jay jar before she sees it.” 

“And three cold Red Bulls,” Casey finished. Waggling them enticingly, he leaned in to whisper against the kid’s dark curls, “What are you willing to do for these bad boys, Bartowski?” 

“You’ll have to find out Ater-lay,” Chuck said, snatching the bag. “Thank God. Replenishment.” He breathed out, took another kiss from his husband, and held out the squirming boy. “Trade you. Sugared-up preschooler for the pink backpack?” 

“Best trade all day,” Casey said, a smile twisting his lips. As soon as Chuck slipped the pack off his shoulder, Casey held out his hands. “Come here, JJ. What did your Daddy feed you today?” 

“Ice cream! At the park.” Jonathan wrapped his arms round his father’s neck and squeezed. “Papa, what’s mine in the bag?” 

Casey cocked a brow first at his son and then at Chuck. “Ice cream, again, eh?” 

“Informant,” Chuck mumbled good-naturedly. “You need to work on keeping secrets, little man.” 

“Ooh,” said Jonathan, swinging his legs. “I meant – what’s that stuff, Daddy?” 

“It was kale,” Chuck replied. “Kale-flavored ice cream.” 

“That tasted like chocolate with Superman mixed in!” 

Pretending to give Jonathan a zip the lip signal, Chuck opened the panda face and turned around to see George still in a modified hug that more resembled a headlock. “Oh, hey, hey, Ellie-bean. Why don’t you give kitty a break and tell me what you did today? Did Mrs. Jordan give you homework?” 

Chuck had, by now, checked the district’s Family Access site, but he waited to see if his daughter would fess up. Spelling test tomorrow. Bonus words for extra credit to boot. 

“That depends,” Eleanor said sweetly as she set the cat down. “Did you already check on the computer?” 

Casey chuckled. “Busted, Daddy.” 

Chuck rubbed the back of his neck and returned her gap-toothed grin with a weary one of his own. Though he wouldn’t admit it to Iron Man standing next to him, he could use a nap. Working from his home office was an epic fringe benefit, despite the fact Tuesdays and Thursdays were a bit of a juggling act. Jonathan, at the busy age of ‘three – and I’m this many days from four!’ was in preschool M-W-F, but Tuesdays and Thursdays? Home. Underfoot. And with security briefings, conference calls among various agencies for his role as Intelligence Asset Alpha, not to mention the usual data dumps for the Intersect to review, the kid had his nerdy hands overflowing. And here he thought being the Human Intersect was yeoman duty. 

Why didn’t Ellie warn him parenthood was a nonstop gallop on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride? On rocket fuel. 

He wouldn’t change it for the world. 

That’s where Red Bull came in handy. Some days, Chuck traded a few hours at the park or library for time he would make up later by working after bedtime. It was a happy-crazy middle ground worth every minute. 

Tonight was feeling particularly brutal, however, since there would be several late calls. Between needing to discuss a flash surrounding a security breech at LAX with high level TSA directors, reviewing files, he had to order cupcakes for Jonathan’s party, track down a magician, and – 

Dang. He forgot to ask Casey to pick up cat litter. Should’ve written it down. 

Except the last time he checked, his desk was littered with crayons and Woody coloring books to infinity and beyond. 

“Eleanor, why don’t you show me your spelling words,” he heard Casey say, “and we can go through them while I start dinner.” 

“You remembered the ID and password,” Chuck whispered to Casey, letting him know he was both amused and impressed. “Did you check yesterday’s grades, too?” 

“Who do you think you’re dealing with, Bartowski?” Casey asked. He propped his shoulder on the kitchen doorframe, watching Chuck sort through Eleanor’s school papers. “I am versed in simple digital surveillance – even for a first grader’s website.” 

“My bad. Here, bitlet. Can you give this to Papa, please?” Chuck smothered a smile when she sent him an exasperated look. “He’s going to review the words while I give Jonathan his bath.” 

“I don’t wanna bath yet.” 

“You, mister, played in the sandbox. You need a bath.” Chuck wiggled his fingers at him as he prepared for attack-mode with an invisible death ray, and scooped the dark-haired preschooler over his shoulder. “Let’s go, JJ.” 

“Do it again!” Jonathan shrieked. 

“When we’re done, kiddo.” As he turned to Casey, he noticed his husband was already taking off his black suit coat and scanning the list of words. “How much time do we have before dinner?” 

“Half hour should do it.” 

“Hear that, tidbit? We better hurry. Papa’s making your favorite, too.” 

“Chocolate ice cream with Superman mixed in and sprinkles?” 

“Um, no. That’s just crazy talk. We should leave now.” Chuck flashed his sunniest smile at Casey and hurried up the stairs. 

-x- 

Saying that Casey ‘helped’ implied something that didn’t set well with the kid. The inference was that Chuck, being home more than Casey, bore the majority of workload when it came to raising their family, and that Casey pitched in between brief gaps in his gig as the Director of West Coast Operations for the NSA. Twenty-five years with the agency earned him a role behind a big desk and enough bureaucracy to need waders. 

At first, Casey growled about being the puppeteer sending men and women into danger, until his husband pointed out he had done it himself for a couple decades and it was time to give someone else a chance to get shot. Every now and then, Chuck vetted a mission that would let him exercise a few toys in the armory with near zero risk in order to keep him from climbing the walls. On the outside, it looked like he had a Big Job, big pieces of pie taking precious slivers from his children. 

Nothing was further from the truth. 

Casey approached parenthood like he did every damn thing before it. As a vitally significant act to uphold the towering tenets this great country was built upon. To instill those values in the two living, breathing, pooping and whining descendants that bear his hyphenated name. God damnit and Amen. 

How the hell did he do that? Honestly, there were days the kid wanted to curl up with a remote control in one hand, a box of Chips Ahoy in the other while bowing down at the altar of a can of Pringles, and just veg. 

(Okay. Most days, parenthood put glitter over his smoke-colored-moving to rosy-tinted glasses. Dazzling technicolor. But there were days ....) 

If it got to him, John Casey didn’t show it. Even when he was simultaneous reviewing spelling words, listening for the dryer cycle to end, and monitoring the baked-not-fried chicken tenders. 

It chafed the kid, then, that some pompous dickhead wanted to leave a turd in their kiddie pool. He wanted to forget it, and hoped he never heard it again. Maybe it’ll never come up. 

-x- 

“No visible red on the surface? Errant paprika? Pepper flakes?” 

“Check.” 

“Ranch dressing and barbeque sauce on the side in separate cups and not touching the food.” 

“See for yourself, kid.” Casey looked up from the stove to point with his spatula at the tiny ramekins on the counter. 

“Noodles?” 

“Cheesy parmesan.” 

“Not the real stuff, I hope?” Chuck peaked over Casey’s shoulder, and since the big heated wall of muscle was right there to pull him in, he wrapped his arms around his waist from behind. “Jonathan likes the green can, remember?” 

“You think I’d forget Tantrum Tuesday?” 

“That was weeks ago.” Feeling sleepy, Chuck rested his chin on Casey’s shoulder. “Mm. You’re warm.” 

“I can get warmer, Bartowski,” Casey suggested, moving over to cut up the carrots. “Don’t believe me?” 

“Think they’ll go to bed early?” 

“I can always tranq them.” 

“Too messy.” Chuck yawned and shifted his head on the firm, bulky pillow, lightly kissed the side of Casey’s neck. “How’d she do on the words?” 

“’Nuclear family’ tripped her up, but other than that, she aced them.” 

“You know, I should’ve married you the day I found out you knew how to slice raw vegetables into the shapes of ladybugs and tulips.” 

“Think they’ll fall for it?” 

“It worked on me, didn’t it?” 

Casey slanted his head to kiss Chuck’s cheek. “A lot of things worked on you, tiger.” 

“I love you. We need kitty litter.” 

“Ah, shit.” 

“Daddy? Papa?” Padded feet in footed pajamas feet slid across the kitchen floor, and two spies jolted. “I think Jonathan just fed George that buffalo head nickel you said to never touch.” 

-x- 

“More milk, daddy.” Eleanor got up on her knees and waved her purple cup at him. “I need another!” 

“What?” Giving a confused look, Chuck pretended to look around the kitchen. “Did you hear anything, Papa?” 

“Nuh-uh.” Casey set his napkin down and ignored the chair rocking the table. “I didn’t hear a thing.” 

“Can I have more milk, Daddy?” the girl asked, her voice shifting from impatience to politely pleasant. “Please?” 

“Oh, it was you I heard.” Chuck smiled as he swiped the cup from her hand. “Of course, you can.” 

“JJ, can you please give Daddy your cup?” Casey asked. 

Unlike his big sister, who would’ve argued a minute or two longer that he didn’t need more yet, their son handed Chuck the almost-empty cup. “Here, Daddy. But why?” 

“Because that will save Daddy another trip to the refrigerator in about thirty seconds from now,” Casey said, smirking at his small victory over a preschooler. 

“Thank you,” Chuck said, patting Casey’s shoulder as he passed by to the fridge. 

“There you go, JJ.” Casey gave Jonathan his own fork. Since the boy had climbed onto the dining chair next to his Papa, Casey had ‘ninja’ duty this evening, which essentially meant cutting up chicken tenders into bite-sized preschooler pieces. It also meant Chuck had ‘seek and retrieve’ duty, a category of chores including refills and replacing forks the cat ‘accidently’ licked. 

As Chuck shut the refrigerator door, he had to do a double take at it. The magnetic, dry eraser board stuck to the front was surrounded by family vacation photos, a dry cleaning coupon, and JJ’s drawing of an airplane he presented to his fathers last week. All of these scraps and reminders framed the ‘Bartowski-Casey Family Schedule’, a place of reverence and deliberation, where one came to ponder The Crazy that was their lives. 

It should’ve caught his attention earlier. Eleanor’s dentist appointment, then her Jujitsu, and JJ’s soccer practice – followed by team ice cream – all tomorrow evening? How the hell did he miss that? 

“Uh-oh,” Chuck whispered, and turned around to Casey. “Houston, we have a problem.” 

“Yeah, we’re going to need a little more barbeque sauce,” Casey said, sopping up the spill. “Napkins, too, if you got ‘em.” 

“I’m on it.” Filling each milk cup halfway, Chuck hustled over to get paper towels and the bottle of sauce. He watched Casey take care of the mess as he replenished the sauce ramekin, and then held out his hand towards Casey without looking. Like synchronous clock-work, Casey handed off the wad of dirty paper towel, which was followed by Chuck’s two-pointer into the trash can. 

“We’re getting better at that,” Casey muttered with a tinge of humor. 

“We’ve had a lot of practice.” 

“Papa, can I have more noodles? Please?” 

“Yes, you may.” While Casey scooped, he slanted a curious look at his husband. “What did you mean, we have a problem?” 

“Oh,” Chuck said, automatically shoving in a bite before the next spill. “Eleanor has a dentist appointment at four, and I should be able to swing that ... if I move up a meeting with Agent Dawson –” 

“Do I have to go?” their daughter interrupted. 

“Don’t want sugar bugs growing on your teeth, do you?” Casey replied. “Let Daddy talk. Then you can have a turn.” 

“But after that,” Chuck said, “we’ll need a divide and conquer strategy.” 

“Time?” 

“Eighteen hundred.” 

“We’re home. You can say six o’clock.” 

“Ah. But whoever takes Eleanor should get there early because she needs time to warm up.” Chuck lowered his fork when an implication struck. “Are you seriously saying you didn’t check the calendar this morning? You always check.” 

“I did.” Casey was smiling, an actual innocent smile, and shrugged. “It’s more fun watching you decode the mystery.” 

“Decode this.” Chuck laughed, quickly held back from giving him the finger, and instead gave him a face. “Okay, Colonel Casey, what’s the mission?” 

“I’ll cut short my briefing with the ambassador of Saudi Arabia, then –” 

“Where’s that, Papa?” 

“Over the Atlantic Ocean. Finish your chicken, Ellie-bell.” Casey pointed with his chin before she could argue, and raised his head to meet Chuck’s eyes. “I can pick up Jonathan from school, come home to do a swap, you take JJ to practice, and I’ll take Eleanor to Jujitsu. Easy.” 

Chuck’s brows scrunched together. “Did you have that last week?” 

“Hard to forget soccer when it’s a bunch of three-year-olds trying to kick the shih-tzu out of a ball for an hour, eh?” 

“Okay, so dinner ....” 

“We can pull together some sandwiches tonight.” Casey squinted over at his son. “JJ, is the cat under your chair?” 

“Nope! He’s on my lap. See?” 

“Heh. Get him down. Please.” 

“Ah, got it,” Chuck said, snapping his fingers. “I’ll get us off the hook for dinner. They like the fish tacos at Alejandra’s – which happens to be on the way back from the dentist. I’ll pick that up on the way home and we can eat in the car.” A grin spread over his face. “Problem solved.” 

“Fish tacos. In the car.” Casey’s eyes deliberately scanned his progeny with amusement. “And you think your problems are solved, Bartowski.” He chuckled. “Your Ford already looks like a traveling circus. After the matinee.” 

“I did vacuum it last week,” Chuck said, not caring that he sounded petulant. “Did you notice?” 

“Unless it involves a fire hose and a HAZMAT suit –” 

“Papa, what’s syn-the-tic?” 

Casey’s fork stopped in midair. He turned, slowly, to peer down at his daughter. “Synthetic? I don’t remember that one on the spelling list.” 

“Oh, no.” Chuck let out a resigned sigh and buried his chin in his hands. It should’ve made him feel better that it took until dinner for this topic to come up, but that was little consolation. “Um, where did you hear that, El-bell?” 

“Kyler Staab said I’m syn-the-tic.” Eleanor pursed her tiny lips as she thought about it, briefly reminding Chuck of her aunt’s mannerism. “Does that make me a robot?” 

“I wanna be a robot!” Jonathan called out. “Me!” 

“Robots eat chicken, did you know that?” Casey said to Jonathan, handing the preschooler his fork. “You too, Eleanor.” When they refocused on their plates, he looked up at Chuck and let out one of his ‘what the hell is that all about?’ grunts. 

“Daddy will be right back.” Chuck cleared his throat dramatically and pushed away from the table. Walking over to the dining buffet, he found a glass and poured Casey a generous double of scotch. After a detour to the fridge for a cold beer for himself, Chuck set the glass in front of Casey and took his seat again. 

Casey stared at the offering. When he lifted his face, his expression was confused and suspicious. “Appreciate it, Daddy, but why do I need a drink?” 

“Did you happen to read your Twitter feed today?” Chuck casually asked, twisting the top off the beer. 

“Since when do I have a Twitter account?” 

“Since I set it up for you because you wanted to follow Sean Hannity?” At the blank look, Chuck rolled his eyes. “And the NRA?” 

Eleanor bounced up in her seat. “I have a Twitter account, Papa!” 

“What?” 

Just as Casey’s eyes darted over to him, Chuck stopped signaling to their daughter with a finger across his lips. Crap. Not fast enough, so he resorted to throwing up a hand. “It was harmless. She wanted to follow Grumpy Cat, all right?” 

“What the – is a Grumpy Cat?” Casey muttered behind his glass. 

Chuck narrowed his eyes at his husband, weighing if he was serious. Apparently, the looming feline had escaped the purview of the NSA’s Direct of West Coast Operations, because he was dead serious. 

The kid just blinked at him. “He’s – ah, how do you explain it? – a Grumpy Cat, John. He’s just ... well, grumpy.” 

“This cat know any tricks?” Casey leaned over to Eleanor and gently tapped her arm. “Not as smart as George, is he?” 

“No one is as smart as George.” 

“Except Papa. Oh, and Daddy.” 

“I should be flattered,” Chuck said. “I guess,” 

“I wanna be a robot!” 

“You have to be syn-the-tic!” Eleanor told Jonathan in her big sister voice. “That’s me, ‘cause Kyle said so!” 

Chuck and Casey exchanged a glance. Chuck’s was pained; Casey’s was more of the ‘are you ever going to explain this shit to me?’ variety. 

“All right-y then,” Chuck said. He merely picked up his cell phone, thumbed over the screen until he found what he was looking for, and held it up for Casey to see. 

“Why are you showing me this?” Casey asked, flicking a wary glance at him. 

“Just read. You’ll see.” 

Casey finished chewing and wiped his mouth with a napkin. His blue eyes focused, and Chuck could see him quickly scanning the screen. After about twenty seconds, he sat up straighter, his eyebrows going low over his eyes. “... the hell?” 

“Daddy, should I cover Jonathan’s ears?” 

“No, honey. Papa’s going to try and curb himself. Aren’t you, sweetie?” 

“But that’s the look he has right before Papa lets out a swear, isn’t it, Daddy?” 

Chuck shot Casey a ‘you’re busted’ look and started to move the screen away. “You know, I should’ve saved this for later.” 

“Hold on.” Casey swatted at his wrist and took the phone from him. It was impressive, but not all that surprising, when he schooled his features by adopting his NSA Director face, the unflappable, stiff-jawed one that still made the kid squirm a little. 

That was good. Because he was going to need his vaunted control by the time he reached the bottom of this tripe. 

All too soon, Casey sent one last glare at the phone and lifted his head. “What in the sainted name of Ronald W. Reagan,” he said, “is that idiot talking about?” 

“Daddy, is idiot a bad word?” 

“Only when children say it, honey. Uh, do you want more noodles?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Chuck scooped some onto her plate while watching his husband’s face. Wow. Good job, Papa, for finding your inner calm and keeping your bad words inside. The kid had to stomp over to Ellie’s and blow off steam for a good ten minutes after reading it. 

Casey gave a mild grunt. “Who are these guys?” 

“You’ve never heard of them?” 

Casey bit the inside of his mouth, obviously trying to place them. “These the two plumber clowns we had to call over here last week when Harold the platypus somehow ended up in the toilet?” Casey swiveled to point his not-amused stare at Jonathan Stephen, who smiled through a mouthful of carrots. “Chew first, JJ.” 

“Not exactly. They’re – ah – never mind. But if you wanted to know why –” Chuck paused to tilt his head towards Eleanor and flared his eyes once. “Now you know.” 

“Ellie have anything to say about this?” Casey asked, and took a sip of the scotch. “I’m sure you talked to her.” 

“No. Well, yes.” Chuck swept his eyes over his children and lowered his voice. “Let’s just say she wasn’t thrilled with hearing that housing projects in Watts have nothing on her rented uterus.” 

Casey snorted and lifted his glass. “I’m still stuck on my semen being compared to last season’s waterproof boots in the L.L. Bean catalogue.” He leaned an elbow on the table and spoke in a dirty whisper to his husband, “Always like to think that stuff is like spitting liquid nitrogen, eh?” 

“You do realize that’s physically impossible. Oh, and would result in the Leidenfrost effect.” 

“Not the effect I was going for, sport.” 

“Behave,” Chuck mouthed, giving him the stink-eye. 

“Daddy, what’s semen?” 

Chuck gaped. Out of all of that, why in the heck couldn’t she ask about the freaking Leidenfrost effect? “Um, uh-huh,” he began slowly. “It’s ... you see ....” Now Chuck put both hands out, fingers stretched, tapping the fingertips together. “Wellll, it’s a little complicated, tidbit. There’s ... ah, boys and they –” 

“Ever see The Last Ship, Ellie-bell?” 

Eleanor’s little face screwed up at her Papa. “No.” 

“Well, those are seamen.” Casey shrugged and took a drink, giving Chuck a ‘good going, Daddy’ smirk behind his glass. 

Chuck coughed politely and patted his chest. “We can’t watch those things yet, can we, El?” 

Eleanor sat up and repeated solemnly, “No end of the world apocalypsesezz or zombies until I’m twelve. Daddy said so.” Her ginger curls flounced as she turned to Papa. “Does that mean I can still get my Howitzer when I’m sixteen?” 

“Uh, anybody ready for dessert?” Casey asked in a hurry, beginning to collect the plates. “Here, Jonathan. You need a napkin, little buddy.” 

“Whoa.” Chuck spun in his chair and squinted at Casey. “Papa said that, did he?” 

“It was a joke,” Casey said, frowning. Under his breath, he added, “She’d never be able to handle a Big Bertha at that age. She’s got to work her way through the natural progression of weaponry.” 

“We are so talking about this later,” Chuck mumbled, lifting Jonathan out of his booster seat. 

“Daddy, Kyler said we’re not a family.” 

Casey was in the middle of stacking dishes, but both fathers momentarily stilled. They exchanged a look before staring down at their daughter. “Eleanor, do you know what a family is?” Casey asked in a low voice. 

“People ... who love each other ... and take care of each other, no matter what.” 

Chuck felt his throat closing, and he fought it off with a smile. “That’s right. Good girl.” 

“So I hope that’s what you told to Kyler,” Casey said, pushing the scraps onto one plate. 

“No.” Eleanor rested her dainty hands on her hips and put on what Chuck called her Princess Face. “I told him he was an idiot moron knucklehead, and I elbowed him in the stomach.” 

“Oh, my God,” Chuck finally managed to say. “We’re getting a call from the school tomorrow, aren’t we?” 

Next to him, he heard an amused grunting noise. When he swung his head around to his husband, Casey quickly wiped off the smirk. “Honey, no elbowing,” Papa said sternly. 

“And?” Chuck asked, raising a brow. 

“And no name-calling,” Casey went on, pointing at her. He then slanted his head over to Chuck’s ear and whispered, “Even thought that little prick deserved every bit of it. Not to mention those fu ... plumbers.” 

“They’re designers, okay?” 

“Eh.” Casey rolled his eyes and shoved a dishcloth in Chuck’s hands. “Fireball, can you watch your brother for five minutes so that we can clean-up? Then we’ll read your books.” 

“What should I say if he wants to be a robot?” 

“Tell him we already have one of those in the family.” Casey cast his eyes to Chuck, who felt it was only fair to return it with a mock-glare. 

“We do?! Is it George? He’s magical, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah, if he could learn to crap inside his box instead of next to it, we’d crown him.” 

Chuck bit his lip not to laugh. “Bitlet, can you show JJ how to put away his crayons on Daddy’s desk?” 

“Sure, Daddy. Jonathan, I’m the boss of you so you have to do what I say,” she called, skipping out of the kitchen. 

When they were blissfully alone, Casey sidled over to him and slid an arm around his waist. Chuck felt a pair of warm lips brush his temple, his ear, even as a hand dipped and squeezed a buttock. “Any chance of a taking a look at my hard drive tonight?” 

“Wow. And they say once you have children, romance is dead.” Chuck smiled and scooped up Casey’s hand, kissed his knuckles before he drew back. “Really, Casey? A Howitzer?” 

-x- 

As he came to the top of the stairs, his feet slowed. 

“– clap your hands – everybody ready for a barnyard dance! Bow to the horse –” 

Chuck’s brain began to automatically fill in the words in unison with his daughter’s voice. Reading that maniacal, mind-controlling text two thousand times might’ve had something to do with it. 

“– bow to the cow – twirl with the piggy if you know how!” 

Edging closer (spy-like) to the open doorway of Jonathan’s room, Chuck poked his head around the corner. Cuteness overload hit him upside the head. He only had a second before he pulled back, but boy, put a time-date stamp on that. He was going to remember his children sitting on the bed, Eleanor reading to her baby brother while he held the cat. 

“Hey, did you see this form in Eleanor’s backpack for a field trip to –” 

“Shh!” Chuck hissed. He motioned urgently to Casey, who had come up the stairs waving a permission slip. “Come here, you have to see this.” 

Casey cocked his head at him and quietly strolled over. “Why are we whispering?” 

“Shh. Listen.” 

“– with a BAA and a MOO –” 

“Papa acts like a sheep! You have to do it, too.” 

Almost belatedly, Chuck slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle the laughter. 

Casey smiled and jerked his head towards the doorway. “What can I say? I’m good at sheep.” 

“Another reason I married you,” Chuck said in a whisper. He swallowed and leaned into Casey’s body, feeling his husband instinctively wrap his arms around his middle. Sinking into the delicious warmth that always seemed to radiate from Casey, he took a calming breath. “This ... right now ...? This is good, isn’t it?” 

“Mm.” The strong arms tightened, holding him pressed to his chest. “I happen to think it’s always good –” 

“– skitter with the mice – Hey! Did you see what George did? Ewww! There’s the buffalo head nickel!” 

Casey jolted. Chuck inhaled sharply. “Don’t touch it!” the dads blurted in unison, flying around the corner with their arms waving. “Everybody up,” Casey went on, sounding a little calmer. “Clear the decks.” 

The startled cat hit Chuck’s legs as he made his hasty exit, causing the kid to nearly stumble. Gaining his balance, he looked down at the bed and his nose wrinkled. “Oh, crap.” 

“Wrong end. Whose turn is it?” Casey asked, tentatively picking up the edge of a blanket. “Or do you want to flip a coin for it?” 

“Hilarious, really, John.” 

“Were you spying on us, Daddy?” 

“It’s called surveillance when daddies do it.” Chuck slapped his hands together and put on a cheerful yet pained smile. “A new game. Yay. We’re going to throw these blankets in the washer and get new ones.” 

“Is George okay?” 

“Now he is, JJ.” 

Fifteen minutes later, hearing the sound of the washing machine churning below, Chuck bent to kiss his son’s head and turned off the bedroom light. He met Casey in the hallway as he left Eleanor’s room. 

“Another disaster averted,” Chuck said, smiling weakly. 

Instead of agreeing or chuckling or pulling him into their bedroom, Casey’s eyes shifted restlessly down the hallway. 

“What is it?” Chuck asked, straightening. 

“Just thinking.” 

“About what?” 

Casey shook his head at himself for even repeating it. “Rental uteruses,” he ground out. 

“You’re not ... taking that seriously?” 

Casey lifted a shoulder and let out a breath. Chuck suspected there was a lot of pent of anger in that huff, and was happy to hear it go. “Nah,” his husband finally said. 

“Good. Because I happen to think your semen is nifty,” Chuck said, waggling his brows. 

“You are a moron.” 

“But you love me, anyway.” 

“Humph. You know what else I was thinking?” 

Chuck, hearing the gravel in his spouse’s voice, smiled and moved closer, reached an arm around him and rested his head on Casey’s shoulder. “What?” 

“Too bad ... some people don’t see it the way I do.” Casey’s eyes lingered on the two doorways. “Eleanor ... Jonathan. And Christ, your sister.” 

“Who knew she had the Bel-Air of uteruses?” Chuck teased, squeezing him tighter. 

Casey ran a hand down his back, scrubbing softly. “Just another miracle, I guess.” 

“Mm. Love you, big bunny.” Chuck raised his head and gave a crooked smile. “You know ... I have another half hour before I need to join the teleconference with the FBI –” 

“I’m so thirsty,” JJ called. “Can I get water?” 

They both turned and angled their heads, listening. “Is that your miracle calling or mine?” Chuck asked in a whisper. 

Casey coughed on a snort and snatched a quick kiss. “I’ll get it this time.” 

Chuck’s eyes shone, observing Casey slip into JJ’s room. So as it turned out, the time they had to relish a peaceful moment could’ve been measured with a stop watch. 

He wouldn’t change that for the world, either. Peace would come, eventually. But perfect moments needed to be gathered like fragile snapshots before they blew away. 

Fini


End file.
